05: Revolution Calling

Nico walks across the street, keeping his hood pulled low, ears flat to his skull. A ceiling of strangely smooth clouds blankets the dark sky, dozens of blue-grey pebble-like formations flexing and turning as they waft ominously overhead. Mammatus clouds, Nico knows they’re called. It’s like an upside-down sheet of plastic bubbling on a hot stove, like stretch marks on skin, large gaseous bulges hanging beneath the main body of the cloud. They remind Nico of Mother’s sagging breasts, the folds of her skin draped around the straps for her game. He knows that should repulse him, but he’s too tired to be bothered feeling vile.

Letting his hood fall back, Nico looks up, the tiny pinpricks of rain drops dotting his face, just a light sprinkle, a promise of what’s coming later. The distance between him and the clouds seems infinite, the world suddenly dilating, the old buildings around him appearing to swell as the clouds distend his perception.

Inhale.

Like falling up, he thinks, as a cascade of vertigo tightens in his gut. Mammatus clouds are common in Anchor City, though nobody really knows why. Some nurse guesses that it’s a by-product of the raw amount of pollution and heat pumped from the streets, while others covet crackpot theories from online message boards about how tethers are mutating the atmosphere.

Nico has always found them as beautiful as they are unsettling, and as he stares up, it’s like everything else simply slips away, and he doesn’t matter, nothing in the world matters. Diving into the clouds, he can’t even see the problems of Earth, certainly can’t feel them. They are microscopic tragedies now, totally invisible with his new sense of nauseating scale and distance.

The haggard cough of a beggar drags him back to Earth, and Nico swallows as his vision squirms around the edges, pulling his hood back up and redoubling his pace. As he walks off he spares a glance for the man; a young goat in soiled clothing on his hands and knees, huddling in the mouth of a dark damp alley, an open palm catching blood from his mouth. Glass chest, Nico remembers absently, that’s what it’s called.

He rounds the corner shaking his head. You need to focus, stop getting distracted by every little thing. Ever since Jalan, his thoughts have been floaty, detached. The meeting with Bryce and Yuri has only exacerbated the problem. Nothing seems to really matter, and he can’t shake the feeling he’s watching somebody else’s life instead of living his own. He’s become a victim to his own perception, random thoughts and ideas invading his mind whether he wants them to or not. Tears sting behind his eyes and Nico blinks them away, sniffing in the cold night air.

What the fuck is wrong with you? Everything was so well constructed before, every piece of him had a place and a purpose. It all made sense. But then you had to go and ruin it. Fucking idiot. He’s not sure if the thought is aimed at Jalan, or himself. Maybe both.

It’s nearly two in the morning, and – except for beggars – the streets of Eastwing are empty. The district’s inside the seawall, but that doesn’t mean every inch of it is nice. Nico’s on the far edge now, and the wall looms at his back like a great colossus, casting a shadow measured in miles, even at night. Surrounding him is a herd of dark glass creatures, mostly office buildings and vertical garages, some packed with elevators for cars, others brimming with corpo VTOLs and launch pads. The ‘scrapers claw up from the ground like the fingers of a massive creature trapped underground, and between them Nico glimpses the neon haze of the adjourning districts and city centre. This area is industrial, and quieter now, but Centro never sleeps, and Deakon is packed full of nightclubs and all-hour services. The distant activity makes the silence of Nico’s street even worse, stripping away any illusion of company. “You are alone”, the city says, “and you belong to me now.”

From Nico’s home in the Quarterside pit, there’s no chance of watching the inner city, but this close it’s impossible to ignore, like a great beating heart, a living writhing thing soaking with neon and chrome, a shallow reflection, but one that’s pretty from a distance.

Nico fiddles with his coat so he has something to do, ignoring the growing fear that any minute now, corpo-bankrolled feds are about to leap from the darkness and cuff him. A nearby warehouse roller door has BURN TETHER SCUM sprayed on it in bioluminescent paint, while its neighbour is free from tags – probably because of the two automated turrets nestled into the façade. Slathered on the potholed tarmac of the street is a huge black and white mural of the Good Reverend Luther Samuels clutching a Neodox cross to his breast, along with the words NEO-ORTHODOX SAVES.

Pay-per-pray bullshit is everywhere now, Nico thinks, his eyes magnetically drawn toward those of the chalked-out lion mural. When did it get so popular? He hadn’t even noticed.

The next turn puts Nico on a street filled with warehouses, the sparse silhouetted dots of strangers in the night all milling toward one about halfway down the street. It’s unmarked, and except for the crowd is as dark and seemingly abandoned as all the rest, but after a moment Nico heads toward it too, his heart pounding in his chest.

The warehouse Nico’s looking for is around the next corner, and his heart starts thundering against his ribs as he begins to approach it. Except for the few burly guys Nico spies standing watch, it looks the same as any other warehouse in the area, crammed between the legs of three ‘scrapers, hiding like a pup, almost as if embarrassed by its stocky shape. This street is busier than the last few, with a small flotsam of cautiously-distanced silhouettes shuffling toward it, heads appropriately lowered and eyes dutifully averted.

Nico makes it as far as the gutter on the opposite side of the street, those vacant silhouettes slowly moving past, distance sufficiently kept. In his pocket, Nico’s fingers close around the brushed steel business card Alaska gave him more than a week ago. His pads trace over the indentation that he knows says LEVIATHAN, and a quiet thrill of anger and excitement intertwined flashes through him. It’s like lightning through his chest, the same feeling he got when he thought about kissing Jalan, the same feeling he got only moments before confessing his real feelings. A wave of apathy threatens to overtake him, and a part of his head yearns to look back up at those clouds and lose himself again, but he fights it off, forcing himself to experience the moment.

“So you comin’ in?” The sudden voice makes him jump, and he bites off a cry before it leaves his muzzle. Nico turns to see Alaska waiting casually only a few feet behind him. The wolf isn’t doing anything that defies natural laws this time, just leaning against a wall with his paws deep in his pockets. The expensive synthfur on his arms is bristling in the cold night air, and shimmering beneath it Nico sees the tell-tale hexagonal pattern of top shelf hardware. He recognises the model too, he’s denied payouts for it countless times before.

How does a (potentially) hex-addicted revolutionary afford such expensive tech? He wonders, before realising that it’s probably stolen.

“H-how’d you know I was here?” Nico asks, shifting his weight as he steps back, unsure where to put his paws. Even looking at the strange grey wolf puts him on edge, sending tingles down through his abdomen, drying out his mouth.

What is wrong with me?

Alaska shrugs, grimacing as he pushes off the wall, strolling forward and stopping a few steps past the gutter, shaking his head. “You should realise by now. We know everything, Nico.” After a pause he chuckles, glancing back at the red panda with a sly grin. “Nah, we got people watching all the streets in a six-block radius. If the feds, or shit, even worse, the corpos plan to come down on a meet, we need a bit of warning to sound the alarms, y’know?” He turns about, cocking his head, green eyes shining in the night. The way he moves is so enigmatic, Nico can’t stop staring.

Like a dancer, he thinks. Graceful and smooth, but also powerful, eccentric. It’s as if Alaska decides where to be next, then folds his body into place.

The wolf, oblivious to Nico’s distracted thoughts, keeps talking. “Reckon I should be askin’ you the same question, Red, how’d you know we had a meet tonight?”

Nico feels his cheeks warm as he blushes without being sure why, and gives a quiet thank-you to the darkness. He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant (because that worked out so damn well last time, huh?).

“I looked it up.”

Alaska raises an eyebrow, snorts. “What, just punched ‘extremist meeting times near me’ into a search engine? We’re s’posed to be harder to find than that, Christ, you’d have a tougher time tracking down the hot MILFs in your area those fucking premo ads are always goin’ on about. We need better security.”

“It... was a bit trickier than that,” Nico admits. He had to comb through several weird forums, found half a dozen dead-ends, and had to pay off more than one ransomware fees he picked up from some of those shadier sites. He tried to avoid coming, he tried to just go back to work and forget like he always does. But then he saw Jalan, he saw Monzy and Bryce and Yuri and Mother and there was nothing, there was no other option, no point. He swallows, biting his tongue to stay in the moment, Alaska’s words only now catching up with his ears. “Wait, extremist?”

The wolf leans in, close enough to give Nico a good look at his eyes, at the cybernetic latticework soldered into his sclera.

Just how augged up are you really? Simultaneously, he gets a whiff of the big canine. Like wood, or fresh soil after a storm. An earthy scent, one that kicks off a bell ringing between Nico’s ears.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing to the extreme,” Alaska says softly. “But that’s their word and they have a lot of ‘em. Fanatic, extremist, maniac, terrorist. But is it terrorism to want a fair fucking break on an eighteen-hour shift? Is it fanatical to not want kids to die with glass lungs just because the latest autocar manufacturer can increase their bottom line by six-percent if they aren’t paying a pollution tax?”

“I don’t know, I guess not” Nico replies, his words and tongue too big for his mouth. He wants to say something right, something snappy and biting like the way Alaska talks, something that’ll impress him. He flinches as the wolf sidles up even closer, a big paw touching the side of Nico’s waist, so warm.

“So,” the wolf whispers, as prickles roll over Nico’s skin like a wave. “Are you coming in? I think you’d like to hear what we have to say. If you don’t, nobody’s gonna stop you from leaving.”

“I don’t know,” Nico says again, trying to swallow the thick lump in his throat. His heart is beating hard enough to hurt, and suddenly he’s not sure why he came. All he knows is after Jalan and then the debacle with Bryce at work, everything felt wrong. Every premium holo-ad, every VTOL, every fucking piece of product placement in a song he saw seemed like the symptom of some giant disease, and he just wanted the chance to feel like he was pushing back against it all – even if only a little. But now he just feels paranoid, and a little aroused. It’s a confusing combination.

The shame is heavy in his chest as he realises how stupid and naïve that was, and the weight crushes any lingering tingles he was feeling along his sheath.

What are you going to do, huh? Join up with Leviathan and become a telekinetic eco-terrorist? You don’t even know what they want, you’re a useless tether, and a coward who couldn’t even stand up for a sick little girl. Stupid idiot, rushing into something without thinking it through. He tries to take a breath, but his throat is closing up. He opens his paws, closes them, doing the motion over and over, involuntary. Again.

Nico nearly screams as Alaska’s paw slides to the small of his back. It’s firm but oddly comforting, the tips of his fingers wrapping around the edge of Nico’s stomach. “Nico-Nico, why are you here?”

“W-what?” Nico asks, breathing in smog-scented breaths in sharp acidic gulps.

Monzcatto Thessler. Her face flashes in Nico’s mind, and not the blurry half out-of-focus picture from Bryce’s dossier, but her real face, as if she were standing right there in front of him. That little girl was sentenced to a lonely death so that he and Bryce could get a promotion, and Yuri Kisaramoto could protect his yearly bonus. She lost everything. And for what? So Nico could buy himself the Himalayan Attack-Wing-Delta set?

He knew Bryce set him up, he knew, logically, that he had next to no choice in the matter. But regardless of circumstance Nico was responsible. Even if he was pushed into it, because of his actions that little girl was alone and sick and dying, of a curable cancer caused by the same corpos that deported her parents and poisoned her body.

Besides, he thought, imagining Jalan’s sad, pitying smile back at Vlad’s Promise. What else can you lose?

Alaska is still looking at him, eyebrows raised, waiting patiently.

“I’m here because I don’t want to be part of the problem anymore,” Nico finally mumbles. Alaska’s face slides neatly into a smile. “And because now I can’t ignore it.”

Alaska puts his other paw on Nico’s chest, right over his heart, sandwiching the panda in a tight grip that sends those tiny sheath tingles right back, like flicking a switch. “Good,” Alaska coos, flashing white teeth. “Then come inside, he’s about to start.”

Nico nods distantly as the wolf tugs him forward, gently leading him across the street and into the warehouse. His paws slide away, the one from Nico’s back tracing down his arm, until Alaska is leading him inside by the wrist. Nico lets himself be led. It’s easier, to just let someone else tell him what to do. He can’t think anymore, he’s spent too many nights crying over Jalan and Monzy, too many nights rocking himself in the shower and wishing he was someone else, wishing that he could get out.

But there is no getting out. As they approach the front of the warehouse, Nico looks up and finally notices the two figures crouching atop the roof lip, adaptive-camo shawls hugging their backs, long x-shaped rifles nestled into their shoulders. From a distance the shawls keep them virtually invisible, but this close the effect breaks down.

“No, no I can’t do this.” Nico stops right before the door, trying to pull his arm back but unable to break free of Alaska’s hold. “They’re gonna find out, Yuri and Bryce, Northpoint’s fixers, they’re gonna know. You don’t understand how powerful they are.”

Alaska steps up close, shushing him. “You’re safe here Red, no one’ll know. It’s secret, and the interior is a lens-scrambled deadzone, which means recordings don’t work here. There’s no way this gets back to you, no proof.” He takes Nico’s wrist again, pulling him through the door as he continues talking. “Listen, the corpos aren’t as strong as they want you to think – they have weaknesses, and the biggest fat fucking one is us, meaning every Anchor City worm slaving for them just to feed his family. We make their guns and their drugs and their comfy faux-leather seats, we have the means of production, and we aren’t powerless despite what they say. You aren’t powerless. I know you want to hear this, don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you. If you don’t like what you hear, you can leave right after, but please... just give it a chance.”

“I can really leave?”

“Of course,” Alaska says, glancing back. “I know you, you’re me from five years ago. I know you won’t refuse, because I didn’t, and you’ve got nothing more to lose, right? This city takes everything. So stop fighting me, and come listen to what we have to say.”

Nico swallows, but stops resisting. With a nod to the guard inside the warehouses antechamber, Alaska leads them out to an old assembly-line floor, the ancient rusting machines dragged aside to create a wide open area, crowd aiming right for a stage at the opposite side of the room. The light is dim and grainy, barely light enough to see by, a purplish blanket that’s dotted with the occasional wipe of fluorescent green or magenta – probably a component of the lens-scrambling. Atop scaffolding towers jammed into the corner Nico spots a pair of thugs, each one decked in denim and smart-weave, both heavily modded and wielding a laser-sighted compact rifle.

The walls of the warehouse are decorated with shimmering chromatic flags, and Nico finds himself glaring up at the nearest one. It has a fully realised technicolour display of Hanbushi Misako, one of the high-line closers at the Vector-Almanac Conglomerate, another of the Big Five. Nico only knows his face because of a few deals Northpoint had with VaCon about six months back. Beneath Hanbushi’s name is a list of crimes, a dot-point list reading:

-    CISTERN GERRYMANDERING (2128)

-    BRIBERY & BLACKMAIL

-    RAPE AND COERCION

-    SIXTY DAYS ANNUAL LEAVE – ADVOCATES NONE FOR EMPLOYEES

-    SLUM PROFITEERING

-    ZERO REPERCUSSIONS

Even as Nico’s watching, the smart-fabric feathers of the flag ripple outwards, replacing Hanbushi’s mugshot with Fidelis je Tura, who is basically the same person, only Fidelis works for Strandtech instead of VaCon. 

The people here aren’t much different to those back at Vlad’s Promise, street-level folks decked in neon and UV patterned clothing, some with glow sticks or a drink, most with mid-range hardware soldered onto their limbs. They belong to the sliver of individuals who constantly tread water at the poverty line, the ones that account for what Anchor City considers its middle class - people that can’t afford to keep themselves augment-free, since no decent job is handing out work to virgin flesh.

These people aren’t out on the street, they have jobs and they go to bed with full bellies, but they’re trapped in the cycle as much as anyone worse off. Crushed by debt, penned in by subscriptions and virtual currencies, seeking salvation from religion and finding only more terms and conditions. The middle class hasn’t existed since the twentieth century, but everyone plays nice despite it, since no one wants to admit they are the poor ones. No, you might be living week-to-week or even day-to-day, but you’re not poor, you’re not like them, look at how many nice things you have, right?

The biggest trick the wealthy pulled was convincing the poor that we’re a nation of temporarily embarrassed millionaires. It’s a quote Nico read, but he doesn’t know where.

Mixed into the crowd Nico even spots two psychonauts, lean bodies with nearly every part of their skull replaced by chrome, their eyes a pair of glowing green lights, antennae and shielded cabling jutting from the back of their head and all over their skeletal bodies. The psychonauts have smartguns strapped to their thighs and back – they’re the cybernetic ninjas of Anchor City’s underworld, high-tech mercenaries Nico has only heard about in gossip articles.

Usually they’re reserved for corpo wetwork, stuff too secretive even for the fixers. What’s a pair of them doing here? They stood out too much to be here on corpo business, which left only one alternative. Nico runs his tongue over the top of his teeth, again wondering if he’s in way over his head.

As Alaska leads them deeper into the crowd, the two cop a few side-eyed looks, the wary strangers all trying to keep their distance, despite the volume of bodies pressing to get closer. Nobody wants to risk being recognised, and Nico finally realises they’re all in the same position he is. Something happened to them, something that pushed them into thinking there’s no other choice but to come here. They’re desperate, alone, and empty inside, just like he is. They need something to latch onto, something that would seem insane to any person living a comfortable life inside the seawall, something extreme.

He wonders, briefly, what each of their Monzy’s was.

Nico turns back to Alaska, sees the wolf watching the stage with an expectant grin plastered on his slick features.

So how come I have someone to hold my paw? He wonders. Looks like everyone else came of their own free will, but Alaska came to me. Nico blinks, eyes stinging, body numb. He can’t think, and the light is giving him a headache. He should be at home, checking on Mother, working on finishing up his latest mecha. Not here, not now, not doing whatever the fuck this is.

“You are here because you’re out of options,” a booming voice is saying, startling Nico into realising there’s been someone on stage this entire time. The words are halting and baritone, artificially loud, and he feels it reverberate through his body, shaking his gut. The voice goes on. “I know it, because I stood where you do now only a few years ago. I was a dreamless husk, wandering without vision or soul, because Anchor City will take and take until there’s nothing left... if you let it.”

The figure that the voice belongs to is a giant, muscled black panther, dressed in tight cargo pants and matte black combat boots, his chest in a light grey sleeveless vest. Thrown around his shoulders is a mottled-camo cloak, much like the adaptive shawls of the guards outside, but without the invisibility tech turned on.

“Who is that?” Nico whispers in Alaska’s ear, transfixed by the panther’s piercing yellow eyes, even from a distance.

“That is the mind behind Leviathan, the one who started it all.” The wolf doesn’t even look away from the stage to answer, his expression one of rapturous awe. “Ahab.”

“I was born in the dustbowl of the south,” Ahab continues, gesturing toward the crowd. He begins to pace back and forth, words flowing like water, the audience already entranced. “In the super-state of land once shared between Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, before the feds sold them off to the corpos. Nothing grows down there, it’s a wasteland dumping ground filled with poverty and death! But it’s all private! In fact, private industry owns more area by square mile in this country than the US government, because our leaders, they wiggle and worm their way out of debts by selling off the ground from beneath our feet! We’re kept low and weak, wage-slaves to the boots! How long until they start selling us too? How long until there is no government, and no freedom, how long until we are told we no longer have ownership over our own bodies?!”

The crowd murmurs their accord, a whoop or two of excitement bursting towards the back.

“Many of you know my story,” the panther says, pausing at the edge of the stage. “When I was young I walked this country alone, slowly at first, then faster as I picked up the ways. Like many of our parents I heard about the promises of Anchor City, old Anchorage flooded and rebuilt, a beacon of hope in this dark future that I never wanted!” Ahab pauses, shaking his head, and Nico catches a glimpse of white teeth as he laughs. “But Anchor City was just like every other promise in this God damned country, it was a God damned lie.”

“FUCKING LIES!” Screams a voice from behind Nico, earning a nod and a point from the panther.

“But I got lucky,” Ahab says. “I waded through their sewage, making a name from myself with natural talents and stolen hardware. I reached the top, or as close to it as a filthy dustbowl orphan can hope to get. I had no goals, no vision, I worked all day and I came home only to sleep. There was no love or passion, no joy, only fear. Fear, that the next day would bring my final failure, that some random event no fault of my own would send me spiralling again, would have my superiors looking for someone to blame.” The panther walks to the very lip of the stage, kneeling down as if sharing a secret with the crowd. His voice is quiet, but it carries over the whole room even so. “How many of you live like that? How many of you do things you find intolerable, things you find despicable and disgusting, because if you don’t, you know they’ll just find someone else? How many of you in this crowd have said to yourself: better you than me?”

Nico let out a shaking breath, the air rasping in his tightening lungs. For a moment Ahab’s eyes meet his own, and he feels utterly frozen in place, struck by lightning. Alaska’s paw rubs at the small of his back, the wolf’s muzzle brushing up near his ear.

“Relax, it’s okay.”

“I left that all behind.” Ahab’s voice is quiet now, and he remains still, cautiously surveying the crowd. “The system we learn says we’re equal under law, but the streets are a harsher reality, where the weak and poor die and fight for the scraps while the rich turn their eyes away! We sell our souls just to keep ourselves afloat! You already know it, you’ve done it, there is no way to be a righteous person and survive in Anchor City.”

“No way!” Screams a woman, causing Nico to jump. His limbs are shaking, fingers trembling – everything Ahab is saying is true, too true, as if he’s reaching into Nico’s mind and reading out his most secretive thoughts. He expected this to be new information, but the panther’s only saying back things Nico already knew, but was too afraid to say aloud. He eases back into Alaska’s grip, the wolf’s strong paw on his back a stabilising comfort, keeping him from spinning out of control.

“The system is rigged, the truth is none of us ever had a chance, not in their world!” Ahab’s voice picks up speed and energy with every sentence, with every word. “We’re walled in by corpos and subscriptions, we trade our bodies for pennies, and we don’t own a thing worth having! I ask you, what is the point of dying for their cause? What is the point of having a machine that cures cancer if none of the sick have good enough credit to afford it?!”

“NO POINT!”

“NO FUTURE!”

Ahab nods, smile broadening. “That’s right, there is no future in this city. You’ve all heard the question, you’ve heard the revolution calling, and now you’re here to answer it! You’re here because you know the evils of the system, and you know that the only way forward is the utter and total rejection of that system!”

“BURN IT FUCKING DOWN!” The voice is shockingly close, and Nico realises that it’s Alaska who screamed it. The wolf has his fist in the air, and Nico can feel his own heart pounding. He’s terrified, but also excited. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? Others who see what he sees, people who know how awful the world is but are too powerless to do a thing about it. What can Nico do against a company like Northpoint? He tried to help out, tried to do something good, and it cost a little girl the luxury of dying with her parents by her side.

The crowds furious cascading agreement drowns his thoughts out, every man, woman, and other in the crowd eager to have their anger heard, all the while Ahab drinks it in.

“We are sick and tired of being treated like slaves!” Ahab is shouting now, the speakers blasting his voice overtop that of the snarling crowd. He emphasises the ends of his sentences, the frothing crowd echoing his words a vehement cry. “They keep us dumb, keep us weak! Let us say enough!” Ahab pushes his fist in the air as the entire room echoes enough. “Say no more! No more death, no more tax breaks for the rich, no more corruption and greed wearing the boot on our necks! Let us do the one thing they are afraid of!” Ahab clutches his fist before himself, eyes wide and voice straining with righteous fury. “Alone we’re weak and pathetic, but together we’re the backbone of their empire! Because we work in their factories, and we buy their product, and we have them by the throat! I ask you all, no, I need you all to be ready. Ready for the day we tip the power balance and tear down their crowns! Ready for the day we rise up and topple this sick place. Ready for the revolution, ready for our righteous fury! Let’s work together, and burn the Big Five to the fucking ground!”

“TO THE GROUND!” The crowd erupts, throwing fists into the air. Nico’s panting, looking around, feeling totally shocked at the amount of raw anger and energy trapped in the tiny room. The warehouse feels like it’s about to explode.

And Ahab is still shouting.

“They don’t want us to know that WE have the power! That we have the means and the motivation! We have their factories and labs, we destroy our bodies toiling to keep their sick and rotting world afloat! Now I can’t tell you our plans exactly, it’s not safe, and our protection is in decentralisation, in ignorance. I can’t tell you a date or a time, or even a method or target, but what I can say is that revolution is coming! I need you, my brothers and my sisters, to be ready to take up arms for it! Prepare yourself, arm yourself, prepare your neighbours and spread our word! A future filled with hope is coming, you just need to be ready to accept it!” Everyone is nodding now, the air is tense, poised, like the hour before a thunderstorm.

Ahab cries out. “Our destiny is ahead! All we have to do is reach out--” There is a crack of displaced air as the light around him folds inward, a spark of yellow lightning flashing in the air as the panther vanishes. Nico blinks, confused, even as Ahab suddenly appears only a few feet from him, in a flashing instant, broad arms held open to welcome the crowd in.

“—AND TAKE IT! For we are Leviathan! And we will NOT be silenced!” The panther bellows, punching into the air, his voice impossibly loud. A chorus of agreement erupts from the crowd, some pumping their own fists, some chanting, others trying to get close enough to tell Ahab their name. They all push forward and Nico feels his body crushed, paws all stretching out over one another as the audience clamours to speak to Ahab, to embrace him, even just to brush their fingers against him.

Above it all is a constant tempo from the audience.

“LEVIATHAN! LEVIATHAN! LEVIATHAN! LEVIATHAN!”

It’s too much, and Nico can feel his chest tightening (LEVIATHAN!). He shouldn’t be here, this is probably illegal – hell, everyone in this room is probably on a Big Five watchlist. He’s never even (LEVIATHAN!) heard of a tether so powerful they could teleport through the fucking air. No wonder Ahab is so brazen; he could probably rip off a fixer’s head with a thought if he needed (LEVIATHAN). Nico tries to pull back but the (LEVIATHAN!) bodies are pressing too close, their ire too frenzied by the rally. His body is (LEVIATHAN!) numb, and his movements come as if they are somebody else’s. He catches a glimpse of (LEVIATHAN) himself reflected back in the chrome backplate of a topless lizard, and finds he can’t recognise his own face.

“LEVIATHAN!” The crowd won’t stop, but Nico has to get out, he can’t breathe, can’t think.

“I have to go, I need to leave!” Alaska can’t hear him, nobody can. A body folds around Nico and suddenly he’s falling, slipping back through the cracks in the crowd.

He lands on his ass, feet and boots all around him, crushing and stomping as they fight to get to Ahab, to tell him their story, to beg him to take them for the fight.

Nico rolls, scrambling forward through the forest of legs, shoving someone over as he climbs to his feet, making back the way he came in. He catches sight of the denim and smart-weave thugs watching him go on their scaffold, but nobody stops him.

He reaches the antechamber and stumbles through, struggling to get enough oxygen into his lungs. Out through the warehouse door he’s on the street, slumping against a light post and sliding to his knees, stomach heaving.

For a moment he’s certain he’s about to vomit, but this time it doesn’t come.

After a minute or two of this, Nico spits out the acidic taste of rising bile, climbing out of the gutter to his feet, slowly shuffling back toward the street that led him here.

What are you doing? Oddly, the thought comes in Bryce’s voice, but it’s Jalan that Nico can see in his mind’s eye. This isn’t you. You need to go back, to close more cases, to hope that Bryce hasn’t figured out how you tried to fuck him over. Let Ahab and his army fight their white whale, let them die for it. You know better than anyone, you can’t fight the Big Five.

He just wants to go home, to check on Mother, and to sleep. In the morning, he’ll pretend this never happened, and make himself forget all about Monzcatto Thessler, even if he has to buy a hundred new mecha sets.

“Nico, wait!” The voice belongs to Alaska, and Nico turns to see the wolf jogging out toward him. Alaska takes him by the arm again, craning his head to look right into Nico’s eyes. “Hey, hey, you alright Red? Sorry, things got so heated in there, I didn’t--”

      “I work for Northpoint!” Nico gasps, shaking his head. “I can’t be in there. He’s talking about attacking the Big Five, he said he wants to burn them down! Alaska, you don’t understand! I... I’m your enemy!”

Alaska frowns, and his voice comes out soft. “Nico, most of the people in that room work for the Big Five in some way or another. Sixty-eight percent of the city’s workforce does, that’s who we want, people who know what it’s like. Weren’t you listening? It’s people like you that can cripple them, imagine if you and every other person in your position refused to go back, what would they do?”

“No, no, no, you don’t understand. If any of you did, you wouldn’t be in there thinking you can fight them,” Nico says again. He just wants to leave. He wants to go sit in his shower and cry and forget this happened, to forget about Monzy Thessler and Alaska and the way it made him feel. There are tears in his eyes now. Great, he’s crying like a baby. “You can’t fight them, they’re too powerful. Even if... even when you try to do it all the right way, it just goes wrong, it goes so wrong.”

Bryce was right. The thought comes unbidden, and Nico actually chokes out a laugh. Pity is a slippery slope, it was over the second you felt bad for that kid.

“Did you see what Ahab did?” Alaska asks quietly, tugging on Nico’s arm, one paw on his back, trying to lead him back to the warehouse. “He’s one of the most powerful tethers on the planet, and he taught me how to use my abilities to their fullest potential, and he can teach you too. Come back inside, listen to what he has to say, one-on-one, away from the crowds.”

“No,” Nico replies, yanking free. “No, I need to go home. I can’t do this.” He steps back, turns to walk away, and bumps face-first into one of the psychonauts from earlier. It’s a lean female jackal with tan and black fur on her body, her eyeballs cut out and meshed green optics fitted into the sockets. Her jaw is chrome, the rest of her skull is matte black with shiny synthfur populating the surface, two antennae poking out behind her left ear. Her two augmented paws are empty, but Nico sees the rifle slung over her back, and the handgun strapped to her chest. It looks like a jackal blended with a tank, more like one of Nico’s mecha sets than a real person with a brain and a soul.

“I’m sorry Nico, but Ahab really wants to speak with you, and I think you should hear what he has to say.” Nico turns back to Alaska, mouth falling open. The psychonaut grabs his arm tight, fingers clamping down like a vice.

“No, no, n-no!” Nico shouts, kicking uselessly as the psychonaut starts dragging him. “Clancy, help me! Call someone! Anyone! Don’t!” He screams the command out, but his helper AI only displays a small radar dish icon with two red lines cut through it in an X, the universal symbol for disconnected.

Alaska gives an apologetic smile as the psychonaut hauls him back toward the warehouse. “You just need to calm down and hear what he has to say, then you can go! We won’t hurt you Nico, I promise.”